An Empty House
by buhyoo
Summary: Russia is alone, and needs a way to forget that he is. Very M.


Russia feels his heartbeat, low and rhythmic, in his head. It's distinct, like his heart has always been beating away in his skull, like it could be his brain pulsating one-two-one-two instead. He knows it isn't; he reaches his hand up to his chest, smooths the palm flat against the fabric of his coat, and feels—muffled—the beating where it's supposed to be.

That doesn't make the pounding in his head stop.

On the same off-on note, almost following the very same frequency, he's breathing. In and out, as he lopes down the hallway. In and out as he shoots a look into every doorway, looking for Lithuania or Estonia or Latvia. He misses them, misses them terribly, they're not where they should be right now and he misses them the same way he misses when he had nice dreams.

Russia reaches the end of the hallway without finding a single other soul in his house. (He's allowed to think of it that way now. He's allowed to consider them souls. It's nice, because the other way was so cold.)

His breathing hasn't slowed. Neither has his heartbeat. They're both still pounding away in vicious tandem as he leans against the far wall, lets out a rough sob, and crumples to the ground.

It hurts. It's his heart and his head, they both hurt, and they won't stop. He thinks they're tearing him apart. When he felt lonely before, he could always find _someone_ in his house and he would make them bliny or borscht, or climb into their bed, and it was warm and familial like everything he wanted.

Everything he wanted.

Thinking of this sends a shock of realization through all his nerves. His entire body is struck with the undeniable reminder that he is alone: there is no one here, there is no one to prepare dinner for, and there is no one whose companionship can provide warmth. His fingers scrabble against the ground, failing to find traction. He shakes.

The noise he lets out is terrible. It's a plaintive, whining note that he cannot hold; it warbles as fat tears begin to roll down his cheeks. Even he thinks it sounds weak and pathetic, but partly for that reason he holds onto it, because as a child his crying would make Ukraine run over and hush him, hold him, make it feel better. He hopes against hope that somehow, if he cries out to the world loud enough, if he just makes it known how much he aches, someone will come to him—someone will come and find him, find him in his house, and pick up him and tell him everything is going to be alright.

No one comes, of course. Even thirty minutes later he is alone against the wall. It's only then that he manages to attempt to lift himself. He slowly stands, one hand pressed to the wall for his balance, and slumps towards the first door that opens to a bedroom. He needs to lie down.

The room seems so large, stripped of everything that once filled it. Bookshelves remained empty. Ghost rings on a table marked where glasses used to sit. Whoever had lived here (he knew who, in the back of his mind, but didn't want to think of it) in this room took everything with them. It felt empty, just like he did. Even the mattress didn't bring much comfort; the simple act of lying horizontally took some strain off his body, and closing his eyes let his mind calm down, but he still hurt badly.

He rolls onto his back, and the open bottom of his coat falls apart on either side of his body. Letting out a groan, he suddenly thinks of the one—no, two—ways he knows to force himself to feel happier, for a time.

A hand dips into his coat, giving a cursory search through inner pockets until he pulls out his flask of vodka. Granted, it's room-temperature, but as he spins the top off that's the last thing he cares about; let the harsh burn of it as it streams down his throat in gulps be the first way he forgets the pain of loneliness. Some drops of it miss his mouth, splattering onto the mattress to spread into wet stains, but he doesn't care about that, either. He drinks until there's nothing left to be drunk.

The flask falls unceremoniously onto the mattress next to him as he reaches down, quickly undoing the clasp of his pants. He's been chided before for the quickness of his actions with regards to this sort of thing: called unrefined, barbaric, and those words stung then—but here in the overbearing silence of his home it doesn't bother him, he just wants to feel _better_ as soon as possible.

It takes a bit of rearranging to get his pants off. He could work with them lowered, but he doesn't want to; it's easier this way, easier to lose himself in the feeling of it. His hand jerks downwards.

The fronts of Russia's hands are rough with calluses, and he feels the texture distinctly as his fingers wrap around himself, causing him to gently exhale. Yes. This is something he needed, he knows now, smiling to himself as his fingertips trace sensitive skin. The hard edge of the pain around his heart is starting to warm away. It's not quite the same sensation as actually being wanted, actually being loved, but the jolts of pleasure amount to about the same thing.

He shifts up along the bed, placing his head on the pillow. It lets him breathe out without worrying about the sheet in his face, mostly, but it's also a comfortable weight under him, another contribution to making his body feel good—and so to tricking his mind that he's happy.

At this point, he finally starts really moving his hand, slow but knowing movements up and down his penis. He's building himself up for this, still going at a careful pace, mostly waiting for it to be hard enough that he can go properly. In time, it is.

Soft keening sounds coming from himself are enough to embarrass him, even while alone, so he dips his mouth under his scarf, letting the fabric muffle his reactions. Now he's just quietly arching forwards, jerking his hips into his hand as it slides forwards-back-forwards-back along his penis, twitching and bucking on top of the bed. It feels good. He feels good. Everything in his mind right now is focused on this pleasure, on the increasing feeling of warm pressure in his lower body.

Russia's biting onto his scarf, but under that, he's smiling.

It feels like there's a coil of sensation in the pit of his stomach, winding and unraveling both at the same time, and each stroke sends it spasming. He's increasing the tension in his body by degrees, stroke by stroke by stroke, and the more he does it the more all he can think about is continuing to do it.

The first thing he notices is how his heart rate sped up again, the second thing he notices is how heavy his breathing's gotten, and the third thing he notices is that he's _coming_, his hips having slowed their motion to allow for it. For a few moments, everything's shaking-blind and perfect, and everything he wanted is made evident in the rush of ecstasy.

His hand's there to catch it, but he doesn't want it there, immediately wipes himself off on the sheet. It only takes a few seconds for his glow to wear off, but as Russia lies there in bed, he already feels the cold sense of being alone starting to creep back.

He curls up into himself, strewn half-naked on the bed as he is, and tries to keep from crying.


End file.
